


calm before

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Fluff, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These bunks are barely big enough for one – you’ve bumped your elbows and knees plenty of times when you tried twisting and turning in the night – but you’re tired of only getting to brush your fingers against hers when she hangs her arm off the top bunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calm before

    You move with the motion of the waves, metal walls creaking and groaning beyond your cabin. These bunks are barely big enough for one – you’ve bumped your elbows and knees plenty of times when you tried twisting and turning in the night – but you’re tired of only getting to brush your fingers against hers when she hangs her arm off the top bunk. Thankfully, Sam is more than accommodating. It takes some shuffling, but you find your way atop her, as comfortable as you need to be in such a situation, one knee between both of hers, the other trapped between her hip and the wall.

    She fans her fingers out against the small of your back, tank top finding its own up your spine, and all you can do from that angle is kiss the corner of her mouth as she laughs warmly against your skin. She says it’s worse than that bed you had throughout your first year, back when you were living on campus; back when you’d soldier through sharing a narrow bed barely designed for one, for the sake sleeping with your arms wrapped around her. But the ground wasn’t sloshing and swaying beneath you then; there was only the rain at your window, rather than waves lashing against a ship’s hull.

   “This is  _nothing_  like the first year,” you murmur, resting your weight on one arm, trailing the other one down so you can touch her side, fingers bundling in the fabric bunched just beneath her ribs. She lifts her brow, presses a smirk to your lips and asks if that’s because you know what you’re doing, now—you rebuke her, bring your foreheads together and push her back down against the paltry excuse for a pillow. “ _No_ ,” you tell her, and try to explain that what you mean is –  _what you mean is_ , you repeat, trying to ignore the way her fingers trace your spine, shoulder blades sliding back and giving you away – that you’ve come so far. No more essays, no lectures, no deadlines; no more long nights spent pressed against her, speaking in hushed, excited whispers about the expedition you’re going to set out on, one day.

   Because here you are, miles and miles from any chunk of rock you could hope to make port at, no longer talking about hypothetical scenarios, endless what-ifs; this is it. You’ve embarked on your first real expedition, traversing the seas around Japan, off to find the ruins left behind by Sam’s ancestors. You try expressing this, but after so long, there aren’t any words good enough to give weight to it at all. You’re having a hard time believing that it’s really happening; you could be anywhere in the world, with Sam moving her hips up against your thigh. Anything beyond the bunk simply ceases to be.

   She doesn’t want to talk about this.  _You_  don’t want to talk about this. She arches her back as your fingers find their way beneath her shirt, and with how cramped the space is, you find yourself gasping with every inch you make her move. When she tilts her head back, you kiss her open mouth, both of you trying to give the other space as you fumble with the button at the front of her jeans. The ship surges with the swell of a wave and your shoulder hits the wall, but you’re caught up in the rhythm now; it doesn’t take more than a second to recover. Her teeth scrape against your lower lip as your hand slides down the front of her pants, and she arches up as your fingers slide against her. You know she’s never going to be able to move as much as she needs to, not here, and you have no intention of doing anything to help, anything to lessen the pressure of your fingertips, not when she feels this good, and—

   “ _Shit_.” The ship’s rocked again, only you weren’t ready for it, this time. Your head thunks against the low ceiling, Sam yelps and tries to scurry out from under you, like the noise might’ve been someone barging their way into the room. You don’t know when you pulled your hand from her pants, but there you are, clutching your head, teeth grit. The ship sways, settles, and the two of you just stare at each other for a long, drawn out moment. Thunder rumbles far off. Some piece of machinery clunks and groans a few levels beneath you, and Sam follows it up with a giggle she doesn’t even try to stifle.

   You huff out an  _ow_  for the sympathy as you collapse against her, face pressed to the side of her neck. “Are you okay, sweetie”? she asks, voice still thick with laughter. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, too many limbs trying to tangle together in the cramped bunk, and you grumble that things seem to be getting off to a fantastic start.

   You both shuffle around until you’re more or less comfortable, and it takes a moment, but then you’re laughing, too. “Let’s hope that’s the worst of it,” you say, trailing your fingertips across the strip of her stomach that’s still exposed. Sam’s right: you really did need to take a break. The cramped quarters of theEndurance might not be the ideal place for relaxing, but squinting at old journals and outdated texts was making you feel as if the ship was doing nothing but sail in circles. You’ve both done the best you can with what you have, even if sharing a room hasn’t turned out to be as fun as you first thought it would be.

   “Let’s just try getting some rest,” she says, still squirming a little beside you, arms tight around your shoulders, so that you don’t try running back to your work again. While Yamatai’s not going to rise out of the oceans and present itself to you, ancient and intact and awe-inspiring, working yourself to death isn’t going to help you think straight, either. You relent – she’s always been good at forcing you to relax while making you think that it was in part your own idea – slackening against her, and Sam brushes your hair out of your eyes, telling you that you’ve got this.

   You sigh, supposing that she’s right, and she mutters under her breath that you’re hopeless, thinking the Japanese will mask the sentiment. With a roll of your eyes, you poke her in the side and remind her that  _she’s_  the one who taught you your rusty Japanese, so she’s not going to get away with  _that_. Besides, you tell her, you’re ready for Yamatai. You’re going to uncover the truth behind the myths she loves so much; there’s nothing that could stand in your way, now that you’ve finally set sail.


End file.
